


Woman, Made Man

by james



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Other, Pillow Talk, Trans Character, Trans!Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26631577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: Geralt has always just been who he is.  He's never thought much about it, though he's always known who he was.Yennefer points out she can change things.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63





	Woman, Made Man

**Author's Note:**

> I'm honestly not sure what terminology to use, here. I'm old! The words we used in the 70s aren't good ones, now. But as close as I can describe it - Geralt is a woman, born in a male body and has always lived as a man and uses he/his pronouns.

Geralt was sitting in the tavern in his preferred seat by the far wall, as well away from the noise as he could manage – which was to say not well enough. Outside by several yards would not have been enough, but he was used to it, like all Witchers had to be. The noise and the smells of humans gathered in numbers, was never something he'd be fond of, but he'd learned to tolerate it.

He missed being out of doors, alone on the Path where the smells of the natural world were just as thick and plentiful, but somehow less offensive. To his mind, at least, if not his nose. 

At least when he was away from towns or cities he didn't have to contend with people.

To be fair, so far no one had bothered him. A few muttered remarks, a few side-eye glances, all easily ignored in favor of a hot meal and a clean room for the night. He'd finished a contract the day before, collected his coin – full payment, no one so much as spat at him for dripping gore on the floorboards where he'd left three mangled heads as requested.

The apothecary had grabbed them up with glee, with plans for the eyes and the brains – potions that Geralt could have told him wouldn't work, any potion maker of any education would know. But the apothecary probably knew that as well and was planning to sell the resulting potions anyway. Potions that claimed to make old men able to perform in bed, things they'd pay handsomely for and the failure to deliver would have nothing to do with Geralt's part of the encounter.

He had enough coin to travel the remainder of the month as he wished, taking contracts for those who could only afford to give him a meal, or let him sleep in a barn, and for those whose gratitude was more sincere than a man who thought of cheating rich old men out of their money. Not that he minded men like that being cheated of coin, but he didn't want to stick around to watch the outcome.

Geralt focused on his ale, decent enough for what he felt like paying. He considered his meal, now finished, and whether he wanted to face increased mutterings and curses by asking for a second platter. Acting inhuman – acting any way different – made quiet mutters turn into worse.

Then he stilled. She was here. He didn't know exactly how he knew, whether his sense of smell was keen enough to make out her scent, faintly enough he was not consciously aware of it, even when he stopped and sniffed, subtly as he could.

Scenting the air like a dog was much worse than eating enough for three grown men in a single sitting. He had no need to draw attention to himself, and besides it was probably just whatever connection lay between them, letting him know she was somewhere nearby.

Sometimes he sought her out. Sometimes, he thought, she sought him. The rest of the time it was – not coincidence, not with the Djinn binding them together. But that by itself was enough to draw them together when neither of them planned their journey to intersect.

He waited, knowing she would find him if she wanted. Another tankard of ale and a wistful thought of another bowl of stew and roast cabbage, another full loaf of bread and cheese. The food was good, here, and Geralt's instincts were to fill up as best he could, while he had the chance. He looked over as Yennefer came in and walked directly to his table. She was dressed for traveling, not to impress – which for Yennefer meant looking like a very wealthy and skilled sorceress who would not hesitate to turn you into a slug, but didn't want to get her best jewelry dirty while doing it. Black fur and silver dress with black embroidery weaving its way up the skirt from the bottom. It looked a bit like eels, Geralt thought, but didn't say out loud.

He nodded at her, she smiled at him in what looked like genuine pleasure. She didn't seem like she wanted to kill him, at least. He waited as the barmaid came by, sat silent as Yennefer asked for wine and two more suppers. Geralt let himself smile, just a bit, and Yennefer caught him, rolled her eyes.

“I can hear your stomach from over here,” she said, which wasn't true, but the first time she'd fed him, one evening in a tent of her conjuration, they'd sat at a small table for two. It was spread out with conjured food which tasted and filled as well as any other Geralt had eaten, and he'd eaten as much as he'd wanted of it. She'd had to conjure up more, twice, and her eyes had grown larger as she'd watched him.

It wasn't often Geralt was able to eat as much as he wished, as much as his body demanded. Normally he simply ate as often as he could, dining at taverns and stopping again on his way out of town to purchase more, hunting and gathering what he could to make it last. 

As much as he hated feasts set out by the lords who wanted his services, he had to admit that they were the only ones who could bring him enough food that he ever reached the point of satiety.

He was never telling Jaskier that, else he'd find himself dragged to every feast on the Continent.

Yennefer, for her part, just ate her supper and drank her wine – conjured up to replace the first glass the barmaid had brought her, but she'd done it quietly and without remark. In a good mood, then, and Geralt found himself relaxing.

As he ate, he realised she was sitting back and watching him. He raised an eyebrow at her and she waved towards his bowl. “Don't stop on my account.”

Her tone made him think he ought to take offense, but the food was good and quite frankly with a sorcerous sitting with him, no one dared utter a word about the inhuman creature gorging himself at their civilised establishment.

Geralt let himself grin, just a bit, then returned his attention to scraping the last piece of onion out of the bowl with the last scrap of bread. His tankard had been refilled and he took a long swallow, and very hastily suppressed a burp.

Yennefer's eyes popped and she pressed her lips together, lest the commonfolk overhear her giggle. 

“Did you want more?” she asked, as Geralt looked to see if he'd overlooked any bit of food on his or her plate. “I don't want you gnawing on anything in the middle of the night.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “I thought you liked that.”

Both of her eyebrows went up. “When have I _ever_ let you bite me?”

“Hmm.” It was true, and again true he had never really wanted to. Their lovemaking tended less towards violent or rough, but never quite what could be called gentle. More than casual, less than intimate. Geralt honestly never put too much thought into it. Yennefer was someone he cared for and trusted – in that he knew what to expect of her and what not to expect. He enjoyed having sex with her no matter what it entailed.

The only time he'd indulged in rough sex was when he bedded another Witcher, and then, when bites and scratches healed before the sex was even over, it seemed hardly to count as such.

She looked down at his plate again, and asked, “Are you finished? Shall we go upstairs or did you want to pester the poor barmaid for dessert?”

“I was hoping dessert would be upstairs,” he said, and Yennefer sighed at him. He smiled to himself and finished the last of his ale, then followed up up to his room.

~ ~ ~

Afterwards, after he'd cleaned himself off with a damp rag while Yennefer did the same, only with magic, for herself, and they'd laid back down to sleep, Geralt found himself still wide awake. Not simply in the mood for more, and not certain exactly what he wanted – he'd lain in bed before, staring at her, or listening to her heartbeat, smelling the scent of her, long since memorised. 

Usually Yennefer just fell asleep, not quite ignoring him, but rarely giving more of herself than sex.

She was watching him now, a thoughtful look on her face. They'd left no candle burning; Geralt didn't need it and though she'd never said, he thought Yennefer could see as well as he did, in the dark. He made his expression more open, hming softly in encouragement, as though she needed to be reminded he would give her anything she asked, simply because she asked it. 

“How old were you, when they changed you?” she finally asked, rolling onto her side towards him, head propped up on her hand.

“I was.. thirteen, or so. Birthdays weren't very important at Kaer Morhen. Most boys were near that age when they began the Trials.”

“Puberty,” she said, guessing, though Geralt suspected she was correct. He knew very little about the mechanics of it, didn't care to know. Wished sometimes he knew less. He nodded, however, because she was probably right. Easier to change a boy when his body was already set for it.

“And did you...” She trailed off, glanced down his body, though it didn't tell him what she meant. He'd still had to grow into his new body; they hadn't magically made him an adult. They'd changed him, but he'd still been a teenager, still had growing to do.

He waited. 

Yennefer wrinkled her nose, then smiled a little, like she was laughing at herself for her lack of words. “Did you mind? Not the Witcher part of it. The way they changed the rest of you?”

Geralt frowned, because what else – oh. He shook his head. “I was never – I was born like this. Whatever I am inside, it was never on the outside.”

“Oh.” She looked surprised. “You always had the wrong body, then? I thought.. I guess I thought they'd turned you into a boy, along with everything else.”

“Only boys become Witchers,” Geralt said. “No one cared... what you _were_. As long as you looked like a boy, that's all that mattered.”

“Huh.” Yennefer lay quietly for a few minutes, and Geralt could almost see thoughts turning over, in her head. Readjusting, no doubt, if she'd been thinking he'd been born a girl, like she was.

Whatever was inside, didn't change, hadn't changed. What they did to his body hadn't made him someone else. He'd never had to think about it much, since no one before Yenn had ever bothered to look, and actually see. His brother knew, because Geralt had told him, once, but afterwards nothing had changed. They never talked about it, Eskel never treated him any differently.

But Yennefer hadn't needed to be told. Their first time in bed, she'd lain him on his back and straddled him, leaned over and looked into his eyes. He'd watched her look, seen the moment she saw. He hadn't said anything; Yennefer let the moment go and gone back to making him come inside her, spent the rest of the evening wringing him dry and smiling at him.

He'd been waiting for her to come back to it, and now she had.

“Do you ever wish you could have the right body?” 

Geralt shrugged. “This is the only one I've ever had. I don't know that changing it would...change anything.” He looked at her, trying to let her see it was the truth. “It was never an option for me, so I never learned to want it.” He took a deep breath, tried to think around the things he never wanted to think about, knowing she could read them in his mind anyway.

“I was young when I was taken to become a Witcher. I barely knew anything about what it meant, being a boy, or being a girl. What I felt inside...didn't change much as I grew up. Becoming a Witcher was overwhelming enough, I guess it just didn't matter what else I was.”

He fell silent, then, thinking of all of the things he could add, all the things he didn't need to. “It's easier being a man.”

Yennefer knew that – better than he did, in fact, how the world was unkind to women. He got enough shit for being a Witcher, but he'd never had to deal with any of the rest.

“But you could,” Yennefer said. “If you wanted.” She paused, then put her hand on his arm. “The process isn't easy, and it hurts like fuck. But... if you wanted. I could do it for you.”

Geralt stared at her. “If I....”

“If you wanted your body to match who you are. The world may not be kind to women, but you're still a Witcher. Either you'd be able to protect yourself when they shit on you for being a woman, or you'd get shit on twice over.” She made a face. “I'm not sure that's really selling the offer.”

Geralt laughed. But what he said was, “I thought you liked my dick.”

She waved her hand. “I can get one of those anywhere. Sometimes I feel like I can't get away from them.” She grew serious, then, and she whispered. “If you wanted, I would give you your body.”

“Hmm.” He had no idea what to say. It was...nothing he'd ever thought about, nothing he'd ever realised was a possibility. “You can't, though,” he teased. “Get a dick anywhere. You don't trust anyone in your bed.”

Yennefer smiled. “True. But I know someone who makes the most impressive toys. I could make a fake one, just like the one you have now. We could strap it on and play.”

Geralt laughed. The idea of getting rid of his dick, only to use a fake one – it wasn't the sort of conversation he could say he'd _never_ thought about having, with anyone much less with Yennefer. He shook his head. “I've never needed. To change things.” He paused, then figured he maybe owed it to her – and to himself – to give just a little bit more. “I'm used to having a man's body. Used to calling myself a man. I don't... feel like I'm missing out. Wouldn't really know what I'm missing.”

It didn't seem to be exactly right, but it was close. Yennefer could feel it in him, anyway, if she looked. Whatever it was he meant to say.

“Would you say it, though?” Yennefer asked, quietly. 

Geralt raised his eyebrow at her. “That I'm a woman? Does it matter?”

“I don't know,” she admitted. “I suppose I wanted to know if it did.”

He shrugged. “I'm just myself. I'm the only person I've ever been, once they started training me into a Witcher. I don't know if anything would have been different if I'd grown up as a human. Whatever I'd have been.”

That was something he thought about even less than he did about everything else. Being a woman inside a man's body, living a man's life. What did it matter what he would have been if he'd grown up human? A farmer? A tavernkeep?

“Would you try it, if you could?” Yennefer asked. “If it was only for a month, just to see what it was like?”

She sounded intense, now, and it made Geralt wonder why she'd even brought it up. Surely he rarely thought about it, so all the times she poked around in his head she wouldn't have picked up on whatever yearning she seemed to be accusing him of. “Why does it matter to you?”

There was a moment when he thought he'd pushed, when she didn't like being pushed. Yenn would shut up, vanish entirely for weeks if she thought he was pushing. She took a deep breath and let her head fall onto the pillow. “I can have any lover I want,” she said, and despite the urge to tease her about _not trusting anyone_ , Geralt stayed silent. He knew what she meant, anyhow. 

Yennefer watched him, gave him a tiny, brief smile. “I could. Have any man I wanted for a lover, if I took the time to train him right. But--” She sank just a little into the pillow, and it obscured part of her face. “I don't have that many sisters I can trust.”

Geralt had no idea what to say. Knew, somehow, that if he said the wrong thing she would go, never speak of this again, maybe never open up like this for him. He reached down carefully, and touched his fingers to hers, and was relieved when she let him intertwine them.

He realised how badly he didn't want to fuck this up. For her, for himself. Mostly for her. He found – for one small moment, letting himself think about being what she wanted him to be.

Being what she wanted _her_ to be.

Geralt didn't know if he could do that. If he even wanted to.

“I've never thought about it,” he said, honestly. “I never thought about it, so I never wanted it.”

He couldn't promise he would think about it, though he knew he would. Whether or not that meant he would come to want what Yenn wanted for him – he didn't think that was the case. 

But. He did know what he could give her, what felt real and true and wasn't something he had to change about himself, to create a reality she wanted.

“You can call me sister, if you want to.”

Yennefer watched him, eyes glancing back and forth as she sifted through his head, looking at the truth of his words and the truth of what he didn't try to say.

Then she smiled, and closed her eyes. Her hand squeezed his, and in the next moment she fell asleep.

Geralt closed his eyes – her eyes, now, with Yenn. She closed her eyes and fell asleep.


End file.
